


the veil of the eye

by tessaquayle



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/M, Pudding, Romance, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 08:18:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14076768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessaquayle/pseuds/tessaquayle
Summary: Gareth and Vivian role-play in real life and spy life.  Pudding is had.





	the veil of the eye

“Remind me why Claire and David are getting divorced?”

He buried his face into the nape of her neck, kissing her lightly between her chignon, hung low, and her red silk dress.

Eyes closed, head tilted, neck covered in kisses, Vivian smiled and quipped: “He could never make her come.”

Gareth stopped and was silent, his lips soft behind her ear.  His hand moved from the small of her back down to her bottom and his fingers spread over a curve and he squeezed hard.  She rocked forward in her seat and gasped.

“That’s a lie,” he twisted her body towards him and she met his grey-blue eyes and spied a slight grin that gave him away.  “A brazen lie,” he continued, “do you know what the punishment is for lying?”

“You sound ridiculous,” she hissed, hoarse like a voice lost to screaming: “what’re you going to do?  Throw me over your lap and spank me?”   

“That wouldn’t really be punishing, now would it?” he quickly countered. 

Vivian’s sharp laughter pierced the space in the car where their murmurs had barely registered over the hum of the engine.  She wriggled away from Gareth, crossing her legs so that her thighs pressed together to quell her desire. Suddenly, she saw the driver’s eyes fill the rearview mirror.  Her brow arched at his reflection and he looked away hurriedly and stared back at the road.  Rows of tall buildings framed the macadamed street, its sheen revealed underneath the flickering lamplights.  On the tiled sidewalks, the Saturday evening crowd bustled and faces blurred as the car drove past. 

Vivian took out a black-lace Colombina mask from her purse and leaned back into her seat.  She had been anxious about this particular assignment, but had eased comfortably into the role of Claire.   _Fake it til you make it._   She’d recoiled at this line of advice from Priyanka, the only female chief resident during her intern year.   _I can’t be fake,_  she’d protested,  _what you see is what you get._    _Good god, Liu.  I don’t mean bullshit like men do, just project some fucking confidence, even when you don’t feel it_.  Years later, in her own operating room, as a masked and capped team peered nervously from the fog-free visors when a complication occurred, Vivian saw her gloved hands steadied over the sterile field in the glare of the surgical lighthead.  Panic can’t sew up a nicked vessel; she stayed calm, quiet as sweat ran down her back and soaked her scrubs.  She imagined herself a duck on a pond, serene and gliding along the water, the frantic paddling and desperate treading hidden from sight.  An unassuming wood duckling, perhaps - unlike its bright and chromatic male counterpart - white speckling its chocolate brown feathers, a sliver of iridescent green only on its wing tips.

She watched Gareth fix his cufflinks, his wrist upturned.  

“I’m puzzled why you’ve been worried,” he said, “you’ve acquitted yourself quite well.”

“Is that meant to be a compliment?”

“Of course it is,” he placed his hands on his lap and stretched out his legs, looking away from her and out the passenger window, “you should consider a more permanent position here.”

The car made a sudden turn, its wheels squealing, and she grabbed his arm to brace herself.

“Excuse me, sir?” Vivian motioned to the driver.  “I need to get off here.”

“Let me know if you need me,” Gareth said quietly.

She slipped the mask over her head, adjusted her earpiece, and caught him stealing a glance at the sweetheart neckline where the microphone was tucked. 

***

The masquerade ball was a sea of glittered, sequined facades greeting Vivian.  Her own mask chafed against her forehead.  She debated to herself which Venetian disguise was more macabre: the tear-dropped Pierrot or the long-beaked Pulcinella. 

Gareth’s voice scratched into her earpiece: “He’s upstairs standing next to the bannister.  Turn around, Vivian.  Look up.”

“Yes, I know,” she huffed impatiently, scanning the landing behind the gaudy chandelier. “This is not helping.”

“Maybe you should take out your smartphone and pretend you’re taking a call.”

“Why?”  She snapped.

“You’re a bad ventriloquist, they’ll be able to tell you’re talking to a hidden device.”

“Shhh.  Found him.”

She spotted the attorney behind a one-eyed Phantom of the Opera mask and picked up her gown and climbed the stairs.  

“Claire!  I’ve been waiting.  It’s hard to tell who’s who here, isn’t it?” her mark chuckled.

“Well, it  _is_  a costume party,” Vivian replied coolly.

“Oh, before I forget, here’s the contact you had asked about,” he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a card.

“Thank you.”

“Maybe it’s not my place to ask, but are you planning to reconcile with David?”

“No, it’s too late for that.”  

“Then why a marriage therapist?”

“Just to make it less acrimonious.”

*******

Gareth was relieved that he’d be sleeping in his own bed tonight.  He almost felt guilty admitting it to himself.  It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy waking up beside her on the thick mattress in her rented flat or turning her over on the figured cotton spread at The Savoy.   Order created familiarity and a kind of sanctuary: suits lined in the closet, one book on the nightstand, empty tumblers flanking the Aberlour in the liquor cabinet.  When she first stayed the night, he appreciated how she meticulously wiped down the dust that fell in the bathroom sink after she powdered her freckles.  Vivian had neatly gathered her belongings into an overnight bag, full of zippered pouches stuffed with travel-sized bottles and make-up cases, slouched on a chair by the front door.  He imagined her grabbing the bag as she left in the morning, tiptoeing into her heels and walking out, leaving no trace of herself.   Once he woke up and looked over at the wrinkled bedsheets that still held her scent, an imprint on the pillow where a single long black strand of hair remained.  The bed, whether made or unmade, laid bare her absence.  It was in his room where she completely surrendered, arms held up and palms against the headboard.  He’d climb on top of her and growl into her ear: “you don’t come until I say so.”  He felt her hips bucking underneath his thrusts.  Power, she liked to remind him, is fleeting: what is given can be taken away.  

In recent days, he found himself rehearsing in his head how to ask whether she’d consider a spare toothbrush, hangers for her dresses, or perhaps a full drawer. 

Gareth wondered whether she missed New York and her own bed.   He swallowed hard and turned the key.

A waft of cinnamon and vanilla greeted him as he walked in and found her standing at the kitchen island, hair tousled, the chignon undone.  She’d already loosely wrapped herself in the silk bathrobe that grazed the top of her knees, its front flap open and revealing lace, the curve of her breast.

“Hey!” She beamed, “you’re finally home.  I was beginning to worry.  Look, I made pudding.”

“What?  Why?”

“I’m hungry, Gareth.  The hors d’oeuvres were so bland at that creepy Eyes Wide Shut gala, and I was too nervous to eat.  Plus, you had this loaf of bread that’s gone stale and I didn’t want it to go to waste.”

He surveyed the pudding, bread pieces cobblestoned on the custard puffed up in the pyrex and crusted at the edges.  

“Oh, I was expecting a cake.”

“What do you mean?  I told you I made bread pudding.”

“No, you said you made pudding.  Which, at this hour, can mean dessert.  Any type of dessert.  My favorite is a saucy puds.  Although of course, you know, pudding can be savory, too.  Have you had suet pudding?  It has meat in it - typically beef or lamb.  And if you like sausage, I’ve got a great black pudding recipe.”

She poured herself a glass of wine: “God, you’re Brit-splaining pudding to me.  And you’re ruining pudding.”

He slid his spoon to where the soufflé edged glass, carved out a piece to bite: “this isn’t bad.”

“Good!  So - I got the name.  Tomorrow morning we can see what Moneypenny can dig up on this woman.  I think she’s involved with one of those troll-bot cyber farms that Q keeps fretting about.  And we have to schedule an appointment – well, Claire and David need to schedule an appointment.”

“Couples counseling?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe they work things out, get back together.”

“Nah - they’re the kind of couple who stay broken up, but continue to fuck.”

She leaned on her elbows over the counter to spoon another loose piece, the cream spilling onto her plate.

He blurted: “Have you ever been married?”

She didn’t look up: “I’ve been engaged.”

“Oh,” he replied, waiting for her to continue: a backstory, a catalogue of another man’s mistakes he might avoid.  

She shrugged: “I dodged a bullet.”  

“I’ve been married…once…briefly,” he offered, hoping she’d reciprocate.

“Yeah, I know.”

“How do you know?”

“Moneypenny told me; it’s not exactly a state secret.”

“Do you want to be married?”

She looked up, eyes twinkling, and licked the bowl of her spoon and pointed it at him: “What do you mean?  Do I believe in the institution of marriage as it pertains to me or do I want to be married to  _you_?”

He blinked.

“This - this isn’t a proposal,” he stuttered, “I mean, not that, I wouldn’t want – what I meant to say was, well, I wouldn’t propose like this.  I’m just asking…”

“Yes?” Vivian laughed.  He knew she delighted in how he was faltering in front of her.  He moved toward her, tasting spice and honey on her lips, and kissed her.  When he finally pulled his mouth from hers, he leaned against the fridge, sated.  

**Author's Note:**

> Fulfilled the following four prompts: "it's too late," going undercover as a divorcing couple, a costume party, and an argument over the meaning of pudding. The title is from Suji Kwock Kim's poem "Monologue for an Onion."


End file.
